by Denise Avery
THE BILLIONAIRE'S CURVY SUBMISSIVE:
A BBW Erotic Novel
By
Denise Avery
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Denise Avery on Smashwords
The Billionaire's Curvy Submissive: A BBW Erotic Novel
Copyright © 2012 by Denise Avery
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading Material
The material in this document contains explicit sexual content that is intended for mature audiences only and is inappropriate for readers under 18 years of age.
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THE BILLIONAIRE'S CURVY SUBMISSIVE:
A BBW Erotic Novel
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Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Credits
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Chapter 1
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Stepping gingerly over the rolling hills of unwashed laundry that never failed to accumulate on the hardwood floor of her Brooklyn apartment, Claire Baxter prodded her laptop to wake it up from sleep mode. She peered at the icon for her email inbox and let a hopeless sigh escape from her lips. No new messages, obviously.
Claire gathered her thick, ash blonde hair into a bundle at the nape of her neck and glanced around the cluttered surface of her desk, embarking on the daily search for a hair tie amid the rubble. She felt her breathing quicken and tried her best to swallow the mounting unease that had, of late, become a permanent fixture in her internal landscape. The fact that she couldn’t find one lousy hair elastic in the sea of crap cluttering up her apartment did not help matters one bit.
“Tommy,” Claire called, trying to keep the hysterical edge from her voice, “I thought you said you were going to clean this place up yesterday?”
“What’s that?” A sleepy voice called from the bedroom.
Claire took a deep breath to steady herself, “You told me that you were going to clean the apartment once you’d finished your work for the day.”
“Oh...” Tommy, Claire’s boyfriend of two years, poked his head around the corner of the living room. “I was going to, but the thing is... I never got around to writing those articles.”
“So... You just didn’t do any work yesterday?” Claire said flatly.
“Nah.” Tommy replied, shrugging.
“And you couldn’t have cleaned instead?”
“I couldn’t clean with my assignment on my mind, Claire.”
“And naturally, you couldn’t have buckled down and done the assignment.”
“I just wasn’t feeling it. You know? I’ll try again today.”
“Tommy—” Claire began, but he disappeared around the corner before she could lay into him. She looked down at her hands and was not altogether shocked at the force with which she had been digging her fingernails into her palms. Tommy had that effect on her these days.
Tommy and Claire had been an item since their sophomore year of college. They’d met on the set of a student film that Claire was starring in, which was shooting in the middle of a harsh New England winter. The mindless director of the “film” had, for some unfathomable reason, decided that he absolutely needed a shot of his heroine looking wistfully at the sea in a sundress, and couldn’t understand why Claire was a bit annoyed at having to stand scantily clad on the windy beach in the middle of February for two hours. Tommy, who’d be responsible for holding the boom mic, had been kind enough to lend her his coat between takes. They’d been together ever since.
Theirs had always been a relationship of convenience, but now that they’d graduated college and entered the big bad job market, there didn’t seem to be anything convenient about their lives together. They’d pooled their savings and managed to find a tiny, cheap apartment way out in the Brooklyn boondocks. After a month of subsisting on rice, beans, and Pabst Blue Ribbon, Claire began to panic about their prospects. She had majored in visual art with a concentration in photography, and Tommy had studied (in the loosest sense of the word) journalism. They’d each been “lucky” enough to find unpaid internships through their university, but as far as real paying jobs went? Not so much.
Tommy, who’d always been handy enough with computers, had started doing freelance writing work getting paid about a penny per word for longwinded articles about air filtration systems and marketing strategies. It was something, but his short attention span and general lack of motivation meant that he hardly made fifty bucks a week. Claire, on the other hand, had found a retail job through a friend and made enough for them to at least make rent. Her best friend Savannah had hooked her up with a job manning the counter of a ritzy children’s shop in the fashionable neighborhood of TriBeCa.
Claire despised going to work. Call her crazy, but she shuddered at the fact that a pair of bloomers for a three-month-old baby cost more at that place than she’d paid for her prom dress. It didn’t help that the customers were snooty, inconsiderate, and treated her as though she didn’t exist except when they had a problem with the merchandise or needed a sounding board for their high class complaints. Worst of all, though, was her boss.
Cheryl Sanders, the owner and slave driver of Baby Beautiful Baby Clothing, was a cold-hearted tyrant. Claire had been completely bamboozled by her boss’s evil streak—she’d seemed normal enough during the interview! Sure, her plastered-on smile had given Claire the willies, but she’d appeared harmless enough. It wasn’t until after Claire had signed a contract agreeing to work at least a year at the store that Cheryl had unleashed the crazy.
Still, it was a job of sorts, and Claire had plenty of recently-graduated friends who couldn’t even find that. Plus, with Tommy pissing away his days pretending to be a freelancer, someone had to be making money, right?
“Babe,” Tommy cried from the kitchen, “Can you come here a minute?”
Claire picked her way around a massive pile of soiled hoodies (the majority of Tommy’s wardrobe) and tripped into the tiny corner of the apartment that housed their mini-fridge and hot plate (full-sized appliances were for working professionals, apparently).
“What is it?” Claire asked, “I have to leave for work in a minute.”
Tommy was sitting on top of the mini fridge in his favorite pair of Looney Toons pajama pants, holding a box of organic toaster pastries. He looked disappointed.
“Claire,” he said sadly, “What does this look like to you?”
“A lazy, spoiled baby sitting on my sister’s old fridge,” Claire replied tersely.
“Not me, although thanks,” Tommy growled, brandishing the box at her, “These.”
“They’re Pop Tarts,” Claire replied through her teeth, “You asked me to get you some freaking Pop Tarts on the way home from the store yesterday, and I, being the generous and adorable girlfriend of your dreams, got you some goddamn Pop Tarts.”
“No,” Tommy said slowly, “No you did not. These are not Pop Tarts. These are some bourgeois, crunchy granola, all-natural bullshit. And they’re blueberry! I specifically asked for apple cinnamon. Jesus.”
Claire stared at Tommy, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry...” she said, “Are you... yelling at me right now?”
“I can’t help it!” Tommy said, throwing his hands into the air, “You’re just so inconsiderate sometimes! Why can’t you ever think of anyone besides yourself? I swear, sometimes I think—OW!”
Claire hadn’t made the conscious decision to hit Tommy with their one sauce pan (which was, of course, caked with old spaghetti), but she seemed to have nonetheless. A nervous giggle escaped her and Tommy stumbled against the wall, looking dazed.
“You crazy bitch!” he shouted, clutching the side of his head that Claire had whacked, “Why would you do something like that?”
“Just felt like it, I guess. Inconsiderate person that I am,” Claire chirped.
“You owe me. Big time.” Tommy countered, “First the Pop Tarts, now this? That counts for at least one blow job tonight, minimum.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Claire said, edging out of the kitchen, “If you concentrate really hard today and manage to grow that little noodle dick of yours to a size that’s worthy of my attention, I’ll give you the best blow job you’ve ever had. But only if you take a freaking shower. What’s it been, a week?”
“And change...” Tommy pouted.
“I have to go,” Claire said, “Someone has to act like an adult around here.”
“When will you be home?” Tommy called after her.
“When I remember why it is I ever bother coming home to you,” Claire snapped, wrenching open the front door, “So it might be a late night.”
***
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the overhead speaker announced, “Our subway is delayed due to train traffic ahead of us. Please be patient while we—” But the message was drowned out by the sound of two dozen harried New Yorkers grumbling. Claire’s subway car had stalled on the tracks while it crossed the Manhattan Bridge, and she felt her palms begin to sweat. It looked like she was going to be late to open the store. She prayed silently that this wouldn’t be one of those mornings that Cheryl chose to drop in for a visit. That woman loved nothing more than hassling Claire and Savannah about appropriate gift wrapping and up-selling techniques in front of their customers.
The subway car was too warm to be comfortable with all those agitated bodies inside. It was a surprisingly warm morning for November in New York, and Claire had overdressed. She wiggled around, looking for a pocket of cool air in the extremely crowded subway, but found that she was entirely surrounded by various bodies. The close proximity was beginning to make her antsy, and she suddenly felt short of breath. Prone to panic attacks, Claire quickly began to take preventative measures. She unzipped her heavy down jacket and began to loosen her thick scarf. Just as she began to feel a moment’s relief, a husky voice chortled behind her.
“Keep going, sweetheart. Take it all off...”
Claire whipped her head around and came face to face with a scruffy, bulb-nosed man at least twenty years her senior. She was horrified to see that his teeth were approximately the shade of mustard and that he badly needed a shave and a cleaning of his fingernails. The man grinned as Claire’s face went pale, and his bloodshot eyes locked onto her exposed chest.
“What a treat,” the man wheezed, feasting his eyes on Claire’s amble bust.
She felt a familiar embarrassment spread through her body—the same sensation she’d be victim to since she had turned twelve and gone from skinny tomboy to curvy nymph seemingly overnight. Her body had always attracted the male gaze, and certainly not because her collarbones stood out to an extent deemed “good” by fashion magazines. It was everything under her collarbones that men could not tear their eyes from.
She’d been a high C cup since middle school, and had what her mother liked to call “baby-bearing hips” and her asshole big brother liked to call “thunder thighs”. Her waist, though not tiny, dipped inward in hourglass perfection. Claire had, through it all, maintained a good relationship with her body—from her powerful calves to her soft belly and the sort of booty that songs were written about. But still, she couldn’t help but feel self conscious about her figure sometimes, especially when assholes like this guy started to harass her.
“Man... I’d love to dig my teeth into those,” the pig continued, nearly salivating onto Claire’s exposed chest.
“Excuse me,” Claire hissed, not wanting to cause a scene, “I am a grown woman, not a flank steak. And you are disgusting.”
“Hey! You’ve got a mouth on you! A big, sexy, pouty mouth...”
“I’ll warn you once to leave me alone, or I’ll call the po—” but Claire’s words fell out of her mouth and she felt the man’s appalling grasp on her thigh. She glanced around wildly, hoping that someone would witness this violation, but in typical New York fashion, everyone kept to themselves.
“Not so tough now, are you?” the man sneered, his hand moving closer and closer to her crotch.
“You son of a bitch...” she whispered, glaring at him and doing her best to keep from crying.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you?” the man said.
A deep, authoritative voice answered from somewhere out of Claire’s sight answered, “She called you a son of a bitch, and she was right.”
The dirty man glared over Claire’s head. “Butt out, buddy,” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, you filthy excuse for a man,” replied the angelic voice, “Move to the other end of the car or I’ll throw you right off this overpass.”
Claire wrenched her head around and caught sight of her defender. Now, she was really going to have a panic attack. The man absolutely towered over the rat that was attempting to molest her—he must have been at least six foot three. He wore an impeccably tailored pea coat with gloves that looked to be Italian leather, but Claire could hardly focus on his outfit, she was too distracted by his face. She’s never seen a jaw that could actually cut glass if put to the task. She could see his neck stretch taunt with the agitation of the moment, and a dark glimmer shone in his steely blue eyes. His jet black hair was cut short and simply—no elaborate sweeping or waving like some hack politician. He was, by Claire’s guess, the most beautiful man she had ever seen up close. And he was coming to her rescue.
“You rich boys,” the little man was pouting, inching away from Claire, “You think you rule the world or something.”
As her assailant fled, Claire was filled with a glowing sense of relief. She took a deep breath and smiled dumbly at her mysterious protector. He looked deeply into her eyes, as if checking for trauma, and Claire felt a surprising, hot surge of attraction sizzle through her every nerve. She was taken aback by the intensity of her reaction. She’d been attracted to guys in the past, sure, but never with such visceral immediacy. And never with such need.
“Are you OK?” the man asked slowly.
Claire, feeling as though her red hot desire must have been glowing like a neon sign, blushed wildly. “What, me? Oh, yeah! No. Totally. I’m totally fine. Like, no problem. It’s no big thing. I, like, totally get groped all the time!”
The man raised an eyebrow at Claire, and she watched his jaw relax. She had the sudden, overwhelming thought that those jaws could tear through a pair of her three-for-one panties like they were butter. Mortified by her dirty thoughts, she dropped her gaze to his spotless wingtips. What was this guy’s story? He was handsome enough to be a model, but didn’t look high maintenance enough for that to be likely.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m glad that you’re fine,” he said. He didn’t smile, didn’t seem the type, but Claire could have sworn that the shadow of a grin graced his gorgeous, full lips.
“Yeah, for sure,” Claire bubbled, hating how young she must have sounded to him, “I’m totally cool. Thank you for doing that, though. I’ve lived in the city for more than four years, but I still never know quite how to handle things like that.”
“I thought you were doing a good job of it,” the man said, “I can’t believe how offensive that must be to you. I’m offended, and I wasn’t even the target. Men who think that every pretty girl
is at their disposal sicken me. I’m sorry that you had to deal with that.”
Did he just call me pretty? Claire thought wildly, touched by his concern and impressed by his non-bravado. Did this carved-from-steel, life-saving, feminist piece of perfection just call me pretty? I can’t even...
The subway car lurched forward, and Claire was knocked against the man’s sturdy chest. As if by instinct, he closed his arms around her, locking them into an unexpected embrace. As the subway PA system chattered about construction and delays, Claire’s body pressed against the staggering glory of her protector. For a brief, unbearably wonderful moment, she could feel the heat of his chest against her cheek, his breath in her hair, and his hands around her body.
But it was just for a moment. The man shifted his weight awkwardly, snapping Claire out of the moment. She straightened up and smiled nervously. Should she go for it? Did she dare put herself out there and make the first move of flirtation with this guy? As she opened her mouth to find out, he grimaced and began to tug off his gloves.
“It’s a sauna in here,” he grumbled, tearing the leather from his powerful hands. Claire loved a good pair of hands on her, and she hungrily feasted her eyes on his. That was when she saw it, gleaming in the dim florescent lights. A golden wedding band. Smack dab on that telltale finger. Claire felt a ripple of disappointment in her belly and was surprised by it. Why should I matter so much whether this stranger was attached to someone? He was just some guy on the subway. Some nice, handsome, honorable, powerful, respectful man... And anyway, she was attached too. Though when she took a moment to remember Tommy in his ridiculous PJ’s she admittedly felt a bit ill. What was it that had her so entranced by the man before her?